


Paint me in trust

by kat_fanfic



Series: Monster!Eliot one-shots [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Heartbreak, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Monster banter, Poor Quentin, Possession, Quentin misses Eliot, after episode 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 17:44:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat_fanfic/pseuds/kat_fanfic
Summary: The thing inhabiting his friend’s body was so far removed from Eliot that there was never even a fragment of a second in which Quentin wasn’t forcibly reminded of what he could only hope was a possession rather than a takeover.





	Paint me in trust

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I don't know. I just needed to do something with my feels, you know?
> 
> Title is from the song "Human" by Dodie

It was as if he’d never left the castle, Quentin realized halfway through a hastily provided dinner - Chipotle, as demanded. Except that now instead of simply entertaining the monster in a controlled environment, he was forced to watch him use his best friend’s body like a meat-puppet while he himself was pretty much reduced to doing damage control.

“’S good,” Eliot’s mouth said, the tone so horribly _off_ , Quentin felt the hot sting of tears burning in the back of his throat. 

The monster chewed noisily and dipped a nacho chip into vanilla pudding for his next bite. It ate like a toddler, all grabby hands and pleased noises, uncaring about the mess it left.

Elliot would be appalled.

Quentin shoved the unbidden thought away. The thing inhabiting his friend’s body was so far removed from Eliot, that there was never even a fragment of a second in which Quentin wasn’t forcibly reminded of what he could only hope was a possession rather than a takeover.

“Hm.” The monster licked a sticky finger clean, giving Quentin a bright smile. It had been only lately that this particular expression had been added to the entity’s rather limited portfolio of self-expression.

Seeing that smile now served as additional torture and pain alleviation both for Quentin. In a way, every stretch, every bit of growth was a possibility for change, a chance for it to learn what compassion was, or mercy, or maybe even what it meant to love.

Seeing the monster navigate the real worlds in Eliot’s body was a lot like watching a child, and, despite everything, Quentin couldn’t help but feel for it sometimes. Locked away for centuries in what basically amounted to Azkaban, it was only now being allowed to live again and it was grabbing every experience with both hands, milking it for what it was worth, trying to get everything out of it that it possibly could. It was an incredibly human notion, one that wasn’t unfamiliar to Quentin. 

Eliot’s absence was a constant ache in his chest, a crushing weight that never fully went away. He would do anything to get his friend back, anything, and that included killing the monster. And yet…

“I did like this combination,” the monster gestured with a pudding-covered nacho, ignorant of the thick white blobs it left on the table. “You told me it wouldn’t be good, but it is.”

Half-focused on coming up with a plan to get the monster to sleep, because even though it didn’t seem to need it, Eliot’s body sure did, the words slipped out before Quentin had a chance to stop them. “That’s great, M.”

The monster stilled, halfway into biting in his burrito. Those familiar eyes snapped to Quentin’s, studying him with hungry curiosity. “That was a nickname. Ora called me by one, sometimes,” it said, low, without inflection.

Quentin swallowed. He’d learned quickly that the monster was as unpredictable as Fillorian spitlice, and angering it was not high on his agenda when the skin on his right hand was still healing from his last misstep. “And did you like when she did that?” he asked carefully.

The monster pulled up a shoulder, frowning. It tapped its upper lip with one long finger, eyes never leaving Quentin’s face. “It means she liked me.”

Quentin doubted that, but nodded anyway.

“Do you?” The monster made Eliot’s eyes spark.

Thin ice. There was no good way to answer that and Quentin was acutely away of the others scattered around the apartment. He preferred to screw up when he was alone - less ammunition to use against him that way. “I think I could. Maybe if-“

He was interrupted abruptly. “I don’t like ifs.” It was said flatly, but with a warning undertone that Quentin knew all too well.

“Right.” Quentin cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

It smiles at him then, making Eliot’s eyes do an approximation of the hopefully expectant thing Q had never learned to say no to. “You can call me that nickname again, yes? And I will call you Q, just like he used to.”

It was almost a physical thing, the pain that went through him. “Fuck.” Quentin drew in a shuddering breath. “Just. No. Quentin’s fine, just Quentin.”

There was a peculiarly surprised expression on the familiar face, one that Eliot had always gone to great lengths to avoid showing. “You really do miss him. Not this,” it gestured to Eliot’s body, “but _him_. Who he was inside of this brain.”

Tears pricked Quentin’s eyes. “Yes,” he answered, voice thick.

“Huh.” The monster cocked its head. “Why?”

“Because,” the tears spilled over, stealing his voice. Quentin knuckled them away, angry at himself. “I love him,” he finally said, when he’d regained control.

“Oh.” The curiosity had taken on a sharper edge. “So you wouldn’t like it much then, if I were to do this…” Glowing eyes and a slightly raised hand were the only warning Quentin got.

“No!” He was moving before the first drop of blood had a chance to fall, pressing down hard on the shallow wound in Eliot’s leg. “Shit. Just, don’t hurt him, okay?”

The monster shrugged. “I’m not. He’s gone, remember?”

Quentin stared down at the red stain spreading slowly under his hand, hopeless desolation sitting like a ball of lead in his stomach. He didn’t want to believe the monster, but with every day that went by without even a glimpse of Eliot, he felt himself slipping more and more.

Desperate for something, anything else to think about, Quentin watched the wound slowly knit itself together under his fingers. Normally, the monster took care of things like that in a heartbeat, a flick of the finger at most, so he assumed that this display of healing flesh was for his benefit.

Quentin frowned. The cut wasn’t a life-threatening injury, but it looked painful, and the monster hadn’t even flinched. “Doesn’t this hurt you, too?” he asked, curious in a detached sort of way.

The monster shrugged. “I’m used to pain.” It paused, watching Quentin with calculating eyes. “So is he.”

Quentin stilled. His pulse throbbed in his ears. “What do you mean?”

The monster shrugged. “This Eliot of yours. He’s been hurt before. Boring stuff mostly, but some of it was more creative.” It was said with fascinated delight. “I saw it all, when I took his body from him. It’d been buried deep, but I found it anyway.”

Quentin felt sick, anger and annoyance at Eliot’s innermost thoughts and memories being invaded warring with his desire for even the tiniest hint of something like empathy from the monster. “He’s been through a lot,” he said with a shrug, carefully skirting the edge of indifference. “Just like you have, I guess.”

Pausing, the monster’s gaze sharpened. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“True.” Quentin cleared his throat, gathering his courage. He slowly reached out, something he’d ever tried before, touching that familiar face like he had so many times in the lifetime that hadn’t really been. The skin under his fingers was just as smooth and warm as he remembered. “But,” he murmured, shaking off a disconcerting wave of déjà vu, “I’ve been thinking that you could tell me about it sometime? About what you remember from before?”

Maybe it was muscle memory, or maybe the monster’s attachment to him had more to do with actual affection than he’d realized, but it leaned into his touch, eyes closing and body relaxing in a way it never had in Quentin’s presence before.

“Hm,” it murmured. “I could. It would be more interesting than your Eliot’s boring torture. He’s a real drag, you know.” Sitting up, the monster shook off Quentin’s touch like one would an annoying fly. “I’m getting cronuts.”

It winked out before Quentin even had time to draw a breath. For a long time, he just sat there, paralyzed by the pain blossoming in his chest. He stared down at his own hand, where he could still feel the phantom warmth of Eliot’s skin against his own.

It was only later Quentin realized that the monster had talked about Eliot in the present tense.


End file.
